


Day After the Battle

by reona32



Series: The Bowman and the Elvenking [3]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Movie 3: The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies, talk of wounds, the day after the battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:47:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24482269
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/reona32/pseuds/reona32
Summary: The day after the battle, Bard discovers a miracle (that he is truly sorry to have missed witnessing) has occurred in the medical tents but at a price for the Elvenking.
Relationships: Bard the Bowman/Thranduil
Series: The Bowman and the Elvenking [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1738627
Comments: 7
Kudos: 56





	Day After the Battle

**Author's Note:**

> Now might be a good time to admit I've never read The Hobbit. After news of the Lord of the Rings movies came out, I read those books and I read the Silmarillion kind of by accident, but then I decided I wasn't going to torture myself with The Hobbit. Because reading Tolkien is like getting a tattoo; being stabbed by sharp needles over and over again with the result being something awesome, but I hate pain and love myself too much to read another dry ramble of his. Thus, why I thought Galion was a fan creation. Not Sorry.

After Hilda had dragged him to the medical tent and a tsking Una and Sigrid had treated his wounds, Bard had toured the medical tents that held the injured men, elves, and dwarves. His wounds were light, the gash on his thigh being the worst and it hadn't been deep enough for sewing. So he helped Sigrid and the elven healers wipe away blood and dirt to bandage wounds until he'd been too tired to keep his eyes open, long after his eldest daughter had been sent to rest. Auriel, who always appeared to just be _there_ recently, had guided him to the tent his family was staying in. Sigrid, Bain, and Tilda were already asleep as he collapsed onto his cot and quickly fell asleep, worry of fire and death far away in his exhaustion.

Bard woke late the next morning; the morning after the battle. For all it had barely been a full day since the end of the battle, time stretched strangely in Bard's mind. It felt like a thin thread that might snap at any moment. He blinked gritty eyes and looked around the tent. His breath caught as he saw his children were gone and fought to calm himself down. They had obviously left him to sleep and gone off to do their own thing. The city was full of warrior elves. He didn't need to worry about their safety. He levered himself up to his feet, washed, and dressed.

Outside the tent, people were busy. The area within his sight had been cleared of debris and was now dusted with fresh snow. A fire burned nearby which a few people were warming their hands around, talking with each other. A man had his arm in a sling but he was smiling all the same. Bard's stomach grumbled and he headed to the food tent. He found hand pies stuffed with cheese and herbs on offer and gladly accept one and a dented mug of beer from an elf lady. Elf and Man mixed in the tent, eating together. Bard smiled a little, this is what he had hoped would happen with the mixed patrols. A bubble of merriment sounded from one group, the rough gaffs of the mortals mixing with the musical laughter of the elves.

Bard wiped his mouth on his sleeve and left. He needed to find Percy or Feren and get a report of last night. From the calmness of the last morning, he didn't think anything big had happened last night but one couldn't be sure. He wanted to find his children too and he knew where at least one of them would be for sure. Bard ducked into the medical tent he was most sure that Sigrid was in. The medical tent smelled of blood and the harsh herb washes and pastes used to treat wounds. When Bard had been there the night before, it had been crowded and chaotic. Blood had soaked the ground into mud and the cries and groans of the wounded were a constant symphony. The healers had been tense and harried as they worked to tend to the wounded.

Now there was fresh straw on the floor and the cots were placed in orderly rows. It still smelled of blood but less so. The scent of mint wafted from a burner on a table. Bard was sure there were less people in the tent than there had been last night. Most seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Things seemed better. “Da!” Bard looked up to find Tilda bouncing toward him, Sigrid following at a slower pace. He didn't know how he felt about his youngest being in the medical tent but it appeared that she was only helping Sigrid and Una sort supplies at a table. Tilda hugged her dad's middle and looked up at him. “It was so amazing, Da! You should have seen it. Thranduil helped so much that, like, half the people could get up and leave! Mallos and Alimalé just went from person to person with him and it was amazing!”

Bar's smile turned confused. “What is she talking about?” he asked the other two.

“A miracle, is what she's talking about!” exclaimed a nearby man. He left leg was wrapped in clean white bandages. He gestured down at it. “I thought for sure I was going to lose my leg but then the Elvenking and his healers came by and now it's almost fixed!”

Una held up a hand. “He speaks the truth. For several hours last night the elf healers and their king went around to the wounded and healed those they could. I thought for sure we were going to have to cut off Sutton's leg. The bone was crushed, the wound festering, and his fever threatened to kill him but after the elves finished with him the infection is gone and the bone almost whole. He can finish healing on his own. Never seen anything like it.” She smiled, showing off a gap-toothed grin.

A disbelieving smile broke across Bard's face. “Really?”

Sigrid nodded. “King Thranduil, Mallos, and Alimalé went around to the most wounded, those on death's door, and pulled them back to life. Then they went to those less severely wounded and healed those until Master Galion made them stop.”

“They were all sparkling and glowing, Da. Thranduil was so pretty,” Tilda said in remembered awe.

“His hair glowed,” Sigrid added, gesturing at her own head.

Bard remembered the man he'd seen with just a sling on his arm and tried to recall if he had had other wounds that were now healed. “That's amazing!” He glanced around again. Those that remained in the medical tent seemed to be well cared for. “Where is Thranduil now?”

“He and the other healers were carted off by their fellows some hours ago,” Una said.

“Master Galion and Auriel helped Thranduil away,” Sigrid said. “I can only assume to rest.”

“Well, I better go thank him.”

“Can I come?” asked Tilda.

Bard shook his head. “Better not. Not now. Best to stay here and help your sister and Una.” He looked up at the old woman. “A dwarf healer is meant to arrive sometime today.”

Una nodded. “So I've been told. We've already gotten the supplies the dwarves sent.” She gestured to the table they had been sorting at. “Their healer should be here before dark.”

“Make her welcome for me?”

“Another healer is most welcome, no need to tell me,” Una said with a smirk.

Brad dropped a kiss on Tilda's head and pulled Sigrid into a quick hug. “Be good and I'll see you for dinner, ya?”

“Yes, Da.”

Bard left the medical tent with a huge smile on his face. He looked more closely at those he passed and saw more with just light wounds. A couple he remembered for sure had more serious wounds last night. It was quiet around the tent of the Elvenking, the flaps closed. Auriel and Filegor stood guard and Bard gave them a bright grin as he made to duck into the tent. He nearly jumped out of his skin when the spears crossed in front of his face, jerking him to a halt. Auriel gave him an apologetic look. “I am sorry, Lord Bard, but King Thranduil is resting and not to be disturbed right now.”

“I, oh. I just wanted to thank him for everything he did in the healing tent,” Bard said.

Auriel dipped her head in acknowledgment. “Be that as it may, our king will be resting for the remainder of the day and unavailable.”

“The rest of the day!” gasped Bard. Auriel's green eyes narrowed in warning and Bard lowered his voice. “Are you sure he is well?” He had never heard of elves resting for so long. Worry tightened his chest. Much good had been done with healing the wounded but if it had sickened the Elvenking in turn, Bard would be most angry with him. He chewed at his cheek. “Is there anything that can be done? Is there anything I can do to help?”

A tiny smile curled the guard's lips but the tent flap parting stopped Auriel from answering. “It's alright, hervess-nín. I believe that aran-mín would not be averse to Lord Bard's visit,” Galion said quietly. He said a couple more words in elvish, much to Bard's frustration. Aurile and Galion stepped near each other and briefly touched foreheads. Bard looked away quickly in embarrassment, belatedly remembering that the two were husband and wife. “Lord Bard,” said Galion. He lifted the flap as Bard looked at him. “Please.” Bard quickly ducked inside. The inside of the tent was dimly lit and the Man squinted in the inadequate light. “I ask that you keep your voice down,” muttered Galion, gently grabbing his arm and guiding Bard around the table. “Sleep is most what my lord needs right now.”

Bard's eyes adjusted and the shadows evolved into the alcove the wide camp bed was placed. Bard swallowed. Covered in a deep blue blanket, silver-blond hair draped over the pillow, lay the Elvenking. He breathed gently, lips a pale pink and dark eyelashes fanned across his cheeks. “I though elves slept with their eyes open?” whispered Bard, pulled toward the bed as if a string were tied to his breast.

Galion placed a stool next to the bed and gestured Bard onto it. “Yes, mostly. But my lord used a great deal of energy to heal the wounded and now sleeps deeply to recover his strength.”

“He'll be alright?” Bard asked faintly, sinking onto the stool.

Galion smiled gently. “Yes, in time. I have work. Call for me if you need anything or he stirs.” The elf retreated to the main area of the tent and sat at the table, a stack of reports and correspondences awaiting his attention. He tried to work but his gaze was drawn back to the Man, a speculative look in his brown eyes. Galion had served Oropher and had known Thranduil all his life, since he had been born. He had never known Thranduil be so permissible with another before, spending so much time with the bowman. He had been much changed with the death of his father and then his mother sailing west shortly thereafter. The War of the Last Alliance had lost Thranduil both parents and set a crown upon his head far too early.

It had been better when Thranduil had married. His heart had been lighter. The kingdom had reflected that lightness. The queen had birthed a son and it was probably the most joyous period in the Elvenking’s life, in all of Greenwood in fact. That too had been cut short, cleaved by a morgul blade in the cesspit of Gundabad. Galion closed his eyes in remembered sadness. He had been sure Thranduil would fade, as his mother had done, but the hardening of his heart and the solitude he surrounded himself with had almost been worse. Duty and his young son had kept him anchored to this world, for all that he had been unable to reach out to the elfling. It only seemed to grow worse as Legolas aged. Thranduil had never found another that he seemed to share a connection to.

Until now. That Thranduil had shown a partiality toward Bard could not be denied. Bard had shown the same regard toward the elf in return. Galion did not know whether to feel concerned or hopeful. For an elf, a connection to a mortal came with a whole new host of problems and Galion did not know if those problems were ones he wanted his king to entangle himself with. He watched as Bard shifted forward on his seat, worry on his face. The man reached toward Thranduil’s hand that lay atop the blanket and Galion held his breath, but Bard faltered before he could touch. Bard pulled his hand back and rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.

Galion looked away, frowning at the tabletop. He had not agreed with taking the army to Erebor after word had reached them that Smaug had both emerged from the Lone Mountain and been slain at Lake-town by none other than Bard himself. The Gems of Lasgalen were important to the king but Galion also thought the obsession over them did Thranduil no good. He had, however, agreed with sending aide to the Lake-town refugees. The Master had been a sniveling greedy pustulate, but the townspeople were hard working and honest. They did not deserve what the dwarves had set upon them. No one had foreseen the orc attack.

There was a mummer from the bed and Galion looked over. Bard leaned forward, resting a hand on Thranduil’s blanket covered shoulder and muttering soothingly. Thranduil shifted restlessly on the bed. A smattering of elvish was whimpered and Galion was up before Bard could turn to look at him helplessly. Thranduil tossed his head on his pillow, a small gasp parting his lips. Galion perched on the edge of the bed. “Mellon-nín, hush,” he said softly. He stroked his silver-blond hair as Thranduil became more distressed. Galion did not know what terror plagued his king in his sleep but he knew there were many to choose from.

As Galion feared, the glamour failed. Bard gave a horrified gasp, but Galion ignored him. The dragon fire wound ate at Thranduil’s cheek and he cried out in pain. Tears leaked out of his right eye. Thranduil lifted a hand toward his face but Galion caught it and pinned it to the bed. Galion gave up his muttering and switched to soft singing, a lullaby he had sung to his own children as well as a tiny Thranduil.

_Elcalad glîn,  
Ithilcalad ross,  
Caluva ilphen._

_Tinnúviel linna,_  
_Laer en îdh,_  
_Linda lortha._

It was a simple refrain that Galion repeated over and over again. Bard seemed to get a hold of himself and hesitantly reached out to pet Thranduil's arm while Galion sang and stroked his hair. The mortal started to mutter soothingly again and between the two of them, Thranduil settled a little. Galion fixed the twisted blanket and swept Thranduil's hair aside. “What...?” asked Bard.

Galion lifted a hand and Bard stopped speaking with a glare. He waited a long moment, humming tunelessly, eyes fixed on Thranduil's face. “Bard,” ordered Galion, “go tell Auriel to fetch Therion.” For a moment, it looked like Bard would argue but then he quickly went to the tent flap to speak with the guard. Galion stroked Thranduil's right cheek, careful to avoid the wounded left, and whispered to him gently. He quickly braided his silver-blond hair to keep it out of the way.

Bard came back to the bedside and looked even more stricken at seeing the ruin of Thranduil's face again. “What happened?” he demanded. “I did not know he had been wounded in battle.”

Galion shook his head. “It is an old wound, from the War of the Last Alliance.” He kept up his soothing, as the failed glamour meant that Thranduil was in pain even asleep. The Elvenking's brow was wrinkled and a stray tear escaped his right eye. His pale lips twitched in discomfort.

“So long ago,” Bard said in surprise, setting his hand gently on Thranduil's shoulder. “Why is it still so bad? Why hasn't it healed?”

Galion sighed. “Our best healers tried but even we can not heal wounds made by dragon fire.”

Bard turned white but his response was interrupted by the tent flap opening. An elf with dark brown hair tied back in a low ponytail with a green ribbon swept inside. “What happened?” he demanded brusquely. Galion moved and the elf took his place perching on the bed, his hand coming up to hover over the wound on Thranduil's face.

“His sleep grew restless and the glamour failed,” reported Galion. “We managed to settle him but the glamour did not reappear.”

“Exhausted himself too far, is what he's done,” grumbled the healer. “How many times have I told him he's not responsible for every wounded being in the medical tents.”

“You know he that won't stop him,” Galion said.

Therion grunted. His hand glowed briefly with a blue light where it hovered over Thranduil's cheek. Elvish curled sweetly through the air. Therion's other hand grabbed onto Thranduil's and also began to glow. The imagine of smooth skin crept over the wound until it disappeared. Therion kept chanting, a look of intense concentration on his face. The healer searched out the little hurts, easing them, and made sure the glamour had settled probably over the dragon fire wound and had dulled the pain of the old injury. Thranduil's whole body relaxed and his breathing grew deep and slow as Therion worked. The healer sat back after a moment. “That should do it,” he announced. “But Thranduil should rest for another day at least.”

“Will he be alright?” asked Bard.

Dark green eyes blinked at the mortal. “Who are you?”

“Bard, king of Dale,” replied Galion. The healer turned to stare at him. “He...” Galion shrugged and broke into a string of elvish before ending with another shrug. Therion turned to stare at Bard again.

“What?” Bard asked in annoyance.

Therion shook his head and stood. “Not my problem,” he said, grabbing the wine pitcher from the table and heading for the tent flap. “Call for me if he starts dying.” The healer disappeared. A moment later the flap opened again and Filegor stepped in to set the wine pitcher back on the table. He nodded respectfully to Galion and Bard and ducked back out.

“What an unpleasant man..., elf, whatever,” muttered Bard.

“Therion is old, even by elven standards. We are lucky to have his skills as healer,” Galion said diplomatically. 

Bard rolled his eyes and looked back down at the sleeping Elvenking. “Will Thranduil be alright?”

“He should. I expected his sleep might be disturbed but there is no great harm done,” said Galion.

“Is that why you’re here babysitting him?” Bard asked with a grin.

Galion sniffed. “Do not let King Thranduil hear you say such things.” Bard flinched, as if imagining the Elevenking's reaction. He sat back on the stool and this time did not hesitate to gently enfold Thranduil’s hand between his own. Galion returned to the table and let out a deep, slow breath, as close as he got to sighing in front of the mortal.

Bard leaned toward Thranduil, as if to impart a secret. “You better wake up soon, Thranduil. These elves of yours need minding.” The Elvenking gave no sign he heard, sleeping deeply again, while Galion found his lips twitching in amusement.

Galion did not know what was going to happen between Bard and Thranduil. He did not know if something did happen, whether it would be good or bad thing. He knew the elves would support the rebuilding of the city of Dale and it's new lord. He knew that the coming negotiations between Dale, Erebor, and Greenwood would be hard, with tempers and ancient bad blood hindering progress. He knew his king feared a darkness spreading fast and was determined the north would weather the coming storm and would do everything in his power to protect his people and his allies. Galion just hoped it was enough.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not gonna lie, Therion is my favorite. 
> 
> Therion - to flourish (haha see what I did there?)  
> Auriel - daughter of sunlight  
> Filegor - little birds  
> Alimalé - good path  
> Mallos - golden flower  
> hervess - wife
> 
> bess-nín - my wife  
> aran-mín - our king
> 
> The lullaby-  
> Starlight gleam,  
> Moonlight glow,  
> Shinning on us all.
> 
> Nightbird sing,  
> A song of peace,  
> To lull you to sleep.
> 
> Don't get too serious about the elvish. I try my best but it's still a made-up language.


End file.
